


Play to Win

by Fire_Sign



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, cab sex, so guess what you're getting for your birthday, you swore it would happen eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-05 14:33:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11015367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: He might have been complaining about attending the performance mere minutes earlier, but Phryne knew he’d do his damnedest not to give into her teasing now. Which was, coincidentally, exactly the challenge she was aiming for.It's MercurialBianca's birthday (well, not today but I can't risk the lack of wifi) and since she once said she'd get me to write back-of-a-cab smut eventually, I figured I'd give in? I'm sorry, my muse is refusing get off her butt.





	Play to Win

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MercurialBianca_TheHonorableMrsMcCarthy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercurialBianca_TheHonorableMrsMcCarthy/gifts).



> Happy, happy birthday to MercurialBianca, beloved friend and Adventuress who is yet to be defeated by stairs!

Phryne smoothed the silk of her gown over her hips, twisting to examine herself in the mirror. The gown was her latest acquisition, a emerald silk with a sheer black lace overlay in a simple but waist-hugging cut. Which meant that undergarments were out of the question, which was either fortunate or unfortunate depending on your perspective--Phryne favoured fortunate, personally, given her companion for the evening; Jack was a delight, of course, but it was best not to give him too many hurdles to overcome lest his propriety decide to assert itself.

Reapplying her lipstick and pressing her lips together to set it, Phryne grabbed her handbag and a white fur coat that would be a shield against the winter chill. That it would also provide a shield against prying eyes was merely a beneficial extra. Then she swept to the door that joined her suite with Jack’s and knocked before pushing the door open.

“Miss Fisher,” he said, lounging in an armchair and reading a book. “I was wondering if you’d ever be ready.”

“Ha ha, Jack,” she said tartly, then grinned. “I do like that tuxedo.”

“I should hope so, given the cost.”

“I’ll repay you. Small price to pay for such beauty.”

There was a brief but troubling moment where she wondered whether the joke would offend him, or remind him of their disparate financial situations, but he rolled his eyes and stood up.

“It probably cost less than your dress,” he said, eyes hot as he looked her over, “even if yours uses far less fabric.”

She gave a small twirl so he could take it all in; she could tell he approved of the low-cut back by the way he swallowed hard before offering his arm. She took it, leaning up to kiss his cheek; a gesture of affection, of course, and not at all because the hint of colour left behind amused her and befuddled him.

“Come on,” she said, “or we’ll be late for the theatre.”

“Remind me again why we’re watching the revival of a play so awful the playwright swore to never write again?”

“Oh, come Jack. It wasn’t quite that bad--Francis Carlton was close to retiring anyway. This just… gave him a little push!” Phryne said, leading him toward the door. “And besides, Guy has put quite a lot of money into it. He believes it will be a huge success.”

“That only increases my trepidation.”

He grabbed his hat and coat--a heavier wool one in slate grey--as they left the room, making their way to the lift. It had just begun a slow descent when Phryne opened her handbag, then sighed.

“Miss Fisher?”

“The clasp,” she said.

“Do you need to exchange bags?”

She looked at him, attempting to appear as doe-eyed as possible.

“Oh no, Jack. I’d hate to be late. But perhaps…” she extracted her keys and moved in front of him, slipping her hand into his trouser pocket, “you could look after these for me?”

He raised a doubtful eyebrow.

“There’s nothing wrong with your handbag, is there?”

“Not a thing, darling.”

A sigh of resignation. “You have no intention of keeping your hands to yourself this evening, do you?”

“Well, I don’t think we can rely on the show for entertainment.”

Her hand was still in his pocket, and this close she could count his eyelashes if she was so inclined. They were remarkably long, and she was so busy contemplating them that she almost missed his riposte.

“So torturing a policeman presented itself as a viable diversion?”

“Just until he breaks.”

Jack rolled his eyes, the line of his jaw set. He might have been complaining about attending the performance mere minutes earlier, but Phryne knew he’d do his damnedest not to give into her teasing now. Which was, coincidentally, exactly the challenge she was aiming for. She grinned wickedly, swaying a little towards him before taking her hand out of his pocket and stepping back.

“Really, Jack, it’s just a game. I can take my keys back if you like?”

He gave a noise that was suspiciously like a low growl, then regained his calm exterior.

“I think it’s best I keep them,” he replied evenly.

The lift arrived at the hotel lobby, and Phryne took his arm once more--smiling sweetly at the lift operator who’d been witness to the exchange in the process, the poor dear--and made her way to the London streets to hail a black cab.

“The Empress Theatre,” Phryne requested, holding onto Jack’s hand as she slid into the motorcar. He climbed in after her, and with the narrow seats his thigh pressed against hers. Advantage: Phryne.

She sat calmly as the taxicab pulled into London traffic--she had, by her estimations, somewhere between thirty and forty minutes to break Jack’s composure, and patience was an unexpected weapon in her arsenal. After a few moments she allowed her hand to brush against his, smiling as he immediately moved his hand in offer. She teasingly brushed her thumb across his palm before taking it; it was not even intentional seduction that had her running her other hand up his from wrist to fingertips, appreciating the textures she found there, callouses mixed with softness, veins and tendons like a roadmap beneath her touch.

There was a hitch in his breath, and she ceased her explorations. Patience.

He tilted his head to look at her.

“You’re up to something, Miss Fisher.”

“Very probably.”

“It won’t work.”

“It’s not a competition, Jack, it’s a game. The aim is to enjoy myself, not emerge the victor.”

His answering smile was deeply suspicious, as it should be. She leant over, breathing against his ear but resisting the urge to bite.

“And I am enjoying myself _immensely_ ,” she purred. “This silk against my skin, that look in your eyes that tells me you want to touch me, how very _wet_ I get at the thought…”

Her hand caressed his thigh, her fingers just barely brushing against his obvious erection. He jumped at the touch, and she kissed his cheek and pulled her hand away. Patience, patience.

Giving him as much room as possible in the small space, Phryne set her hands in her lap demurely. His gaze was fixed on her, waiting for her next move; after a moment she made the pretense of adjusting her necklace, then grazed her fingers along her own clavicle and let them come to rest at the hollow at the base of her throat where she had dabbed her perfume. She could imagine the mingling scents of sweat and jicky that would linger there after sex, and from the look on Jack’s face he was imagining it too; the heat in his gaze sent a pulse of desire through and she clenched her thighs to abate the ache between them. Time to up her game.

Slipping her foot from her shoe, she insinuated it around Jack’s ankle and stroked up and down, her eyes forward; she felt his posture stiffen at the touch.

“You know, Jack,” she said, thankful her voice was steady despite the pounding of her heart, “Guy made sure we had a private box this evening.”

“I’d expect nothing less from you.”

She dropped her voice, “It will be dark. Nobody around if I…” she drifted her palms up her stomach and across her chest, gasping softly at the featherlight touch of her hands on her breasts, “feel the urge--”

“Miss Fisher,” he hissed, and even in the dim lighting she could see the blush on his cheeks.

“Yes, Jack?”

He seemed to struggle for a moment with what to say, but in the end he slipped his hand between her back and the seat, his thumb stroking the exposed skin there, then leant over under the pretense of asking the driver about the route; Jack’s other hand was in _her_ lap, the view blocked from the driver by his angled body, and began to stroke her through the material of her gown. She squeaked at the unexpected boldness, her fingers gripping the sleeve of his coat in an attempt to remain still.

Well, there was no having that. She moved enough that his hand fell away, biting back the urge to whimper at the loss, and slid her own hand into his lap to palm his cock firmly. One stroke, then two, feeling him harden at her touch. She scraped her fingernails up the wool of his trousers, slipping her hand beneath the waistcoat to loosen the braces and pull at his shirt--she wanted to touch him properly. The thought of getting him off in the back seat of a taxi cab was suddenly more appealing than whatever she’d previously planned; she pressed her body against his arm to kiss at his neck, her fingers still seeking.

“Phryne…” he groaned, hips shifting involuntarily.

“Yes, darling?”

She’d finally gotten beneath his trousers and undershorts, his cock hot and firm in her hand; she renewed her stroking and he groaned again, all pretense of control shed in a moment. He gently pushed her away, which would have been a disappointment if there wasn’t a look of primal desire on his face that left Phryne breathless and aching.

“Driver,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers, “please return us to the hotel. Miss Fisher wins this round.”


End file.
